Sylvanlight Reboot
by slflew
Summary: This is the beginning of the Sylvanlight rewrite - for those who haven't read the story, I'm leaving it up until there is more in this version. Still WIP - it is the beginning of Dagor Dagorath in Valinor, as dark secrets resurface.


Lawrence Barker, struggling lawyer, strode confidently along the Portland, Maine Amtrak station platform, looking for his car. He had been visiting his parents for the weekend, and was now headed back home to Boston. He handed off his compact, tidy suitcase and stepped into his car, walking down the aisle until he found his seat. Pushing his leather briefcase into the overhead bin, he slid into his aisle seat, grateful he hadn't gotten one facing towards other passengers. That was always awkward. He flipped through the pamphlet in the seat pocket in front of him, contemplating getting a hot cup of coffee as soon as meal service got underway. The food was expensive, but it was far too early in the morning to not get a caffeine fix. A family of three was sitting across the aisle from him, and their little boy began to scream.

Really, Lawrence thought in disgust. And the train hasn't even started yet. This is going to be a fun ride. He fumbled in his pocket for his iPod, untangling the cord, jamming the earbuds in his ears, and the sound of Spoon drowned out the child's bawling. Two minutes later, the train lurched forward, and Lawrence closed his eyes, immersing himself in notes and thoughts. Four hours it would take to get to Boston, and maybe he wouldn't need to get coffee if he slept a little.

The person in the window seat beside him shifted, accidentally bumping up against his arm. He opened his eyes, annoyed. The person next to him was a girl, and he hadn't noticed her, really, because she'd been sleeping, head against the condensation-covered window. Now he got a good look at her. An oversized green coat dwarfed her small frame, two or three sizes too big for her. She was just a kid – 16 or 17, he couldn't tell – and she looked like she was wearing black pajama pants. Kids these days don't have any respect for the people around them, he thought, still annoyed. Wearing pajamas on the train? Comfortable, yes, but it just went to show she was a slob. Her long, mousy brown hair was frizzed, matted, and plaited into a fuzzy line that ought to have been a braid. She was curled up with bare feet tucked up in the seat, sandals lying on the train floor.

Awfully chilly for sandals, he thought briefly, but then, what else could you expect? She was wearing pajamas. He focused on his iPod again. The freaking kid was still crying. The girl bumped his arm again, and, frustrated, he took it off the armrest. Lawrence glanced over, and now the girl was awake. With my luck, he thought, she'll be wanting to talk.

But she was reaching under her coat, and what he saw there made Lawrence Barker's heart stop. There was blood. It wasn't oh-paper-cut blood or oh-cut-my-finger-with-a-knife blood, but amounts on her shirt that indicated a more serious injury. She was trying to keep pressure on it with a t-shirt.

When finally his brain recovered from seeing something so shocking in real life, he finally opened his mouth to say something. And this is what he said –

"Oh my god," - and promptly fainted.

You have to understand, Lawrence was a bit squeamish about that sort of thing. He was the sort of man who couldn't stand listening to coworker's or client's descriptions of injuries and couldn't watch hospital or cop dramas because of the blood. He didn't know why – his mother understood - but it made his life difficult.

At any rate, he came to, checking his iPod for the time. 10 minutes. Fortunately fainting while sitting in a chair didn't make a scene – he had done it once in the middle of Walmart, and that was embarrassing.

He glanced over at the girl who was surreptitiously pressing on the side of her coat and eyeing him cautiously. He pulled out his earbuds just in time to hear her ask, "Do you have a problem?"

He opened his mouth and shut it again, taking a careful breath. "Are you okay?" he asked.

She winced. Blood was beginning to show on the outside of her jacket. "I've been better."

Lawrence's heart was pounding hard. "What happened?" he asked faintly, not wanting to draw the attention of the entire train car.

She leaned her head against the window, looking pale. "Gunshot. It's a graze, fortunately, but kinda bad."

"A gunshot," he said under his breath, trying to take it all in. "Wh-why didn't you go to a hospital or the police or something?"

She closed her eyes. "Can't. Not enough time. I have to get to New York before they find me." She opened her eyes – some shade of grey – and looked down at her wound. "You got some water or something?"

"Oh, right." He reached up to his briefcase, dragging it down beside him. He dug through to find a bottle, three-quarters full of lukewarm water. "Is this okay?" he asked, handing it over to her. "I've already drunk out of it – "

"It's fine," she said, taking the bottle with trembling hands. Oh god, her hands were trembling. She might be losing too much blood – Lawrence reached up to his neck, his own hands trembling, and unknotted his Polo tie. Dammit, he liked this tie. He whipped it out from underneath his collar, nudging the girl. "Here," he told her. "Wrap this around, so you don't have to keep pressing."

She set the bottle, now empty, on the floor, and wrapped it around her waist, fumbling as she tried to tie the knot. Wincing, he reached over and tied it tightly. She sucked in her breath in pain.

"What's your name, by the way?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

She looked him over carefully, deciding whether or not to trust him. "Gwen," she said. "Gwendolyn Llywarch."

Blood was slowly seeping from the t-shirt into the blue of his tie. "Alright, Gwen," he said, "You – uh – you keep that covered, and I'll get some alcohol and towels to clean it – " He hiccupped a little at the thought, gag reflex kicking in, "and I'll, um, I'll be back." He ran as inconspicuously as he could to the bathroom at the rear of the car, slamming the flimsy doors shut before heaving up the remnants of his mother's blueberry muffins.

Shakily he flushed and sat down on the toilet lid, fumbling through his pockets for a cell phone. That girl needed help, whether she wanted it or not. He pressed some buttons and waited.

Ten minutes later he was back with the girl – Gwen – with a small glass of clear alcohol and clean white towels he'd swiped nervously from the bar while his drink was being poured. He didn't know what kind to get, but he figured anything flavored might be bad for the wound.

He tried to sit down with it surreptitiously, but got an evil glare from the nearby mother._ Drinking this early in the morning? Really?_ Her eyes said. The father, however, gave him a nod._ I could use one myself._ Lawrence blushed and turned to the girl, trying to block her from the inquisitive stares across the aisle. She seemed a little better, he thought, and looked at the t-shirt and tie, not wanting to touch it.

"I think the bleeding's slowed," Gwen said softly. She messed with the knot, glancing up to make sure no one else could see, and slipped the t-shirt out.

There it was, long deep gash across her side. Bile rose in Lawrence's throat, but the girl took the trembling glass of liquor with bloody fingers. "I'll do it," she said. "I can tell you've been trying." In relief, he turned his attention away from the wound, focusing on her face instead.

"What happened?" he asked as she briefly grimaced.

She was quiet for a moment, focused on her task. "Some people entered my home, and were trying to take us away. I don't really know why, but it had to do with me giving blood, I think – I recognized some of them from the local clinic."

"Why were they trying to take you away?"

"I don't know. A friend of mine was staying over, and we hid underneath the stairs. They started searching the house for me."

"Why are you going to New York? Who do you know there?"

Gwen dug around in her coat for a moment, then pulled out a wrinkled white business card and handed it to him. "Tom F. Johnston, Norrington Investment Co." was printed on front, and on the back an address and phone number was written. "I've never heard of that company," he said, handing it back to her.

"I tried searching for it online, but nothing really came up," she mumbled, tucking it back in her coat. "But the person who gave it to me is real, and he's the only person I can think of who can help me."

"Rather than the police?"

She looked at him as though he were an idiot. "I shouldn't stay in one place very long, and the police will complicate matters. I really just need to get to New York. I'll be safe there. What time is it now?"

Lawrence glanced at his watch. "Three hours until we get to Boston."

"Thanks." Gwen handed him the cup and tied the makeshift bandage around herself. "If you don't mind, I'd like to rest a bit before I get there."

"No no," he said quickly, "go ahead. I'll – uh – get rid of this." As he got up and went to the bathroom, Gwen leaned her head against the windowpane and fell into a light sleep.


End file.
